by J C Walsh
Anger boils inside of me. It burns away the lock on my left arm, not completely, but enough for me to lash out. My left fist connects with his face. He jumps to his feet, holding his face. When Chris pulls his hand away, its smeared with blood. My body fights against me. I don’t think I can throw another punch like that, but it’s ok; I like what I see. Chris stares at the blood; he’s not smiling anymore. For a second, I see the old him, the human side; there’s regret in his eyes. Pain. As if the punch and the damage done woke something within him, but it only lasts for a second. He turns back toward me, the wound is ugly as ever now. When he smiles, I can see everything move inside of that hole.
“Alright, Randy. I get it now, we are not going to see eye to eye on everything. So, it’s time to end this party and send everyone home.” He grabs the gas can.
Images flash through my mind. The explosion replays over and over, a hot fiery cloud that surrounds my body. Then the hospital, those days of lying there, constantly clicking the morphine button as if it has gone dry and I have no choice but to continue living with the pain. I don’t want to feel this again.
“Don’t.” I hate the sound of my voice. I can go down fighting, but this is too much for me to bare.
Chris ignores me, tips the gas can over, and splashes my body with the clear liquid. The smell of gas is overpowering. I shiver uncontrollably, teeth chattering.
“It’ll all be over soon,” the voice says. I assume the voice belongs to the Scarred One. The right side of my mouth moves as he talks.
“There he is!” Chris says, the excitement coming back in his voice, “Man, that is some freaky shit.”
The Scarred One is attached to me; the entity is my scars, a living organism. Is he the reason why I have my powers? It would make sense since I had gained these abilities after the accident, after the burns had healed.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask The Scarred One.
“You are planning on ending me. You want to go to Death Highway and end all of this, end me. I don’t want that. I want to exist. I deserve to exist. So, while I was born of the fire you created, I took a chance before you could even be aware of what was happening to you. I made a deal with the Dead One to release me from you. I will freely walk the Red Plane and you will be a slave to the wagers, eternally race for them. You have a lot of debt to pay, Randy Jones.”
“Man,” Chris says, “This is wild, to see you talking to yourself.” He laughs. Then he takes off his shirt, showing his emaciated body.
The entire upper body is tattooed. I recognize the images. The same imagery of chaos and ritualistic sacrifice was on the Nazi’s bodies in the prison. The only difference is Chris has the knife with the tentacle wrapped around its hilt tattooed on his chest, the point of the blade touches the place where the neck meets the breast bone. The tentacle tattoos are writhing on his chest as Chris continues to speak the strange chanting. It’s all coming together now, this plan of insanity. I can’t allow this to happen.
“You have no choice,” The Scarred One says.
Chris sparks the match; it lights up his face like a crazed jack-o-lantern.
“Any last words, Randy.”
My lips tremble as the left side of my mouth fights to form the words.
“Fuck. You.”
The smile on Chris’s face broadens. He drops the match. My body lights up; there’s a whooshing sound, followed by the intense heat licking at my flesh. My vision engulfs in tidal waves of red. The Scarred One and I scream in union.
“You’re journey ends now,” Chris says. I can barely hear him, the roaring flames and searing of my flesh muffles his words. “When this is over, you’ll be my bitch for all eternity.”
The Scarred One awakens.
9.
The room is dark. It smells of dust and mold. I’m sitting in a chair that’s supposed to be cushioned; its rocky surface makes my ass hurt. The wallpaper is a faded yellow, it’s peeling. Shadows cover what’s underneath. That’s ok; I don’t want to look anyway. The outdated flowers wither with the wallpaper. The bed is a gray tombstone. The small television flickers silver images of a little boy fixing cars with his Grandfather. He’s on a step ladder; his small body leaning into the open hood of the car. He’s tightening a part of the engine. I have seen this before. Why am I here?
“I like this program.”
My head whips around. My mouth is a desert.
“Grandpa?”
The old man in the rocking chair does not turn to look at me. He’s focused on the two figures on the screen; he’s smiling. The past flickers in his far away gaze. The rocking chair creaks slowly like aching joints. I stare at him for a very long time, trying to figure out where the rest of him went. He has lost a significant amount of weight the past couple of years. I noticed it the last time we had spoken, during visiting hours. In the visitor area, there are heartless little booths that’re supposed to make you feel like you have a connection with the outside world. You’re divided between a plate of glass; a phone on both sides is the only form of communication. It’s ridiculous when the person is right there, right there in front of you! Voices are consumed by the glass; the phone is a transmitter.
That was the day he told me my grandmother had died. She had suffered a heart attack. The doctors thought it was from the stress. She had spent many sleepless nights worrying about me. While I was suffering in the hospital, she was there. Even after we lost the baby, there was no judgement. She just wanted to see her grandson get better and be there every step of the way. I witnessed each day drain her soul. Her face was ten years older than the day before.
On the screen, Grandma is cooking our favorite Sunday breakfast, French toast and scrambled eggs. The boy is older, so is the man. They are laughing. It sounded beautiful, but, when they speak, the words are backwards. I can’t understand them. It infuriates me because it’s taking away the only moment we have left. My heart warms again when they are smiling and laughing. Static lines ripple up and down the screen momentarily, then they are gone.
Grandpa’s cheeks are wet with tears. I put my head down. Defeat.
His hand shoots out, grip still as strong as I remember it, like he wasn’t an old man battling dementia. His eyes are wild as they bore into me.
“Tell my grandson he needs to get his shit together. You’re one of his friends, right? Tell him for me, will ya. The Wayfarer of the dead is corrupt; there’s only purification and light.”
He lets go and goes back to watching our memories on TV.
I can’t find the words to speak.
“Tell him to just fix it! The universe is broken. Fix it!” he yells.
The shades pull open; the windows cast a landscape with a bleeding sky. The ground is cracked and fissured. Smoke is pouring out from beneath the ground of the strange plane. The Red Plane. I forget about it every time.
There’s a figure hunched forward outside on the cracked ground. He’s wrestling with himself, one half of his body is badly scarred. I look at my right side. I don’t have any scars. Am I dead? Is this how I go to the other side, hanging out with my Grandpa first before I cross over.
Grandpa scoffs.
No, it isn’t. Fuck that shit. I know exactly what’s going on. I get out of the chair, give my Grandpa a kiss on top of his head, say nothing else and step outside. The air is hotter than normal in this world. I walk over to the struggling mass of flesh.
When one is suffering the throes of Purgatory, he faces pain and fire. His soul stills burn when he ascends. There’s pain in purification and the light. And, hopefully, he who seeks redemption is granted it, instead of damnation.
10.
I walk along the fissures of time, into the burning darkness.
He’s on his knees, the half of him that is human is not moving. The other half, where the scars cover most of his body, is writhing and pulling from him, detaching from its human host. I feel for this version of me, to go through life always in pain, always having to deal with how his body looks. He acts tough and
fights through it; that’s always going to be in his genes, that unwavering stubbornness. It’s in all our genes, no matter what plane we are on, or universe we are a part of. I feel for him, even if he is the cause of his scars, of his pain. I am the cause of it.
Now he is a living host because of the Red Plane merging with his universe. Everything has an organic quality to it, like the demons of the dark are merging their own flesh to pass through, to own, to build their own foundation. To exist.
The only forms that are three dimensional are this Randy and the Scarred One. Closing in on them, through the burning pages of the illusion, I walk through the smoke. There’s darkness behind these pages. I hear the things living there, stirring, grumbling; their slick and disgusting bodies sliding in the cold space, wanting, hungry, not for flesh to feast upon but to satisfy something else. Our insignificance allows them to rule us, to reprogram us. The wrongs in this dimension are attracting them, and it’s spinning on its axis.
The things in the dark are getting impatient, the claws on the disfigured hands tear through the two-dimensional fabric. Other things squirm within the enveloping darkness. I am in slow motion. The Scarred One grunts as he’s twisting and turning, the taut flesh now stretching. He’s almost fully away from Randy, but he’s still having to regrow other parts of his body, the half that wasn’t his. I am not concerned with that. I need to fix this, get me out of my head. He’s shuddering in despair; sweat drenches his skin.
The Scarred One quickly turns his head toward me, sensing me. He’s already formed most of his head. He has a full chin and mouth; the other half of his face is forming before my eyes.
“Keep away!” it warns.
“What you’re doing is wrong.”
“Fuck off.”
“What do you think is going to happen when you are free? You’re going to roam the city, find a life amongst the damned and the vile? You think that’s a way to live?”
“It’s better than not existing! The other half of me is a selfish prick! He wants to end it all; it’s not fair. I wasn’t asked if I wanted to come into this world. I am the Scarred One; I am born of fire and, for that, my existence is painful, but I am existing. If he finishes Death Highway, I am no more. I can’t allow such cruelty!” he goes back to releasing his body.
“Stop, right now. I can’t allow you to do this.”
“The fuck you can’t.”
An arm, insectile and elongated, reaches around the barrier out of the darkness. It comes close to Randy; it brushes his leg. I rush over there and stomp on it. The thing squeals and yanks back its appendage. I place my hand on Randy. He’s shivering terribly, but his skin is hot, almost too hot to touch. He’s still fighting. In the other world, he’s burning, but the flame isn’t fully consuming his body.
The Scarred One crawls on the ground now, detaching his leg.
I straddle the being, holding him down. Once my hands touch the taut flesh, he stops growing. He struggles against me, gritting his teeth.
“What are you doing? How did you do that?”
“I am the merger of one,” I say, “I can’t allow you to separate from yourself when there’s so much at stake.” I grab his head, preparing to break his neck.
“NO, wait!” The Scarred One Cries.
“Why?”
“I don’t want to die. I won’t fully die; my mind will know I am just dead flesh on another being. It’s eternal torture! “
“How do I know I can trust you?” I ask.
“Do I have a choice?”
The darkness has almost fully consumed this reality. The things are pulling themselves from the darkness onto the space we occupy like we are on a platform, just floating in nothing. They surround us, a collage of mouths and appendages. One of the montrosities clutches the Scarred One and begins pulling him towards its opened mouth. He screams for help, trying to fight it off with his hand. I grab the appendage; the slimy flesh singes under my grasp, It pulls away.
“You see? They don’t care about your so-called feelings, your existence or the deal you made with Chris and The Dead One. They too want to exist, to claim what has been forgotten, so tell me why I shouldn’t break your neck to save us all.”
The Scarred One is crying; the tears are white and pus like. “I’ll do whatever, just don’t kill me. I can help! I have knowledge of the things here, of this world!”
I nod. I know what I can do.
My hand traces down to his lower back. I turn him over and punch my hand through his flesh. The Scarred One screams in agony.
“This won’t take long,” I say. My hand finds purchase, gripping his spine. One good turn of the wrist, and I feel it snap within my grasp. I pull out my hand , shake off the blood and tissue, and one of the creatures grabs it and gobbles it up greedily.
The Scarred One wails in a way that even tugs at my heart; I am human after all. I feel empathy for any of the things that exist in this nightmare. I have one more thing to do. I step between Randy and the Scarred One. I take one more look behind me at the nursing home; its far away, but I can see Grandpa’s face in the window, watching. He is smiling.
Feeling hope inside, I grab the Scarred One with one hand, the other Randy with the other and pull them towards me, to wear them. They meld to my flesh. I zip up the front to complete the process.
We are whole; I can feel Randy coming back from his despair, the voice of the Scarred One is just a tiny whisper in the chambers of our mind. The two-dimensional world is slowly rebuilding itself, fighting against the fire that burned it. The world is recoating the darkness, pushing the monsters into their void. The house comes into view; the fire is out. The look on Chris’s face makes me smile.
“This can’t be.” Chris steps back away from me. His eyes wide with disbelief.
I rise, the fire rolls off my back. The flames slowly go out and are now ashes that I shake off. Once I am standing fully erect, head up high, I feel different. Almost at peace, but the need for violence is still there; it’s controlled. All of it, just balls of energy inside of me, circling around the same axis. Controlled.
“Why didn’t it work; it should’ve worked. You shouldn’t be here; you shouldn’t be you!”
“I am the Merged One, of the collided and the bringer of balance,” both the Scarred One and I say at the same time.
I close my fist; I can feel it. An invisible energy radiates in my hand; the sensation goes down my entire right arm and up to the side of my face. The Scarred One sighs. I do, as well. It’s an amazing feeling; I feel no pain. My body is hardly as tight as it used to be; pieces of light start dancing around my fist.
Alex, Jack, and Will are free. I can feel the necks of the creatures that were holding them break in my hand, even though I didn’t touch them. More of the dark scaly creatures slip in. My house erupts into violence as the horde of creatures outside start climbing through windows and charge in from the front door. I hear the door in the kitchen break open, and then the sound of talons scraping against my tile floor as they charge in.
The ceiling cracks and splinters. I am pulling pieces of wood with my mind. Then those pieces of wood explode, sending shards of splintered wood in every direction, piercing the monsters in the eyes, and through the center of their heads. Multiple bodies drop. I hear the drawers fly open in the kitchen. All the knives left over sail through the air, killing the next small wave of creatures.
“We can’t kill all of them this way,” The Scarred One says. “You’ll exhaust yourself.” I focus on my car in the driveway, the trunk to my car pops open. The heavy bag flies in from outside, stunning any of the creatures that happen to be in its way.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Will yells. The three of them tear into the bag, grab their gun of choice and start emptying bullets into any of the blood hounds that pile in. I open my right hand. My snub nose wiggles from the bag and comes to me; only I catch it with my left and start firing as well. Every one of my shots are precise. Each bullet is a head shot. Their b
odies fall. When I am out of bullets, I flip the cylinder open; using my mind, I direct all six bullets into the cylinder, reloading the gun. I snap it closed with the flick of my wrist and continue firing.
Chris is still up against the wall, eyes wide open in disbelief that his plan has failed. I am loving every bit of it and can’t help wanting to save him for last. I want to savor this entire battle, savor his loss.
“Don’t get too cocky,” the Scarred One says in my head. “He’s a sneaky one.”
I run out again. I’m about to reload, with my fancy trick, when Chris pulls a gun on me.
“If I can’t have the power, no one can.”
There’s a primal scream behind me. I turn to see Laura charging toward us. She has a knife in her hand; it’s pulled back. The knife flies from her hand as she throws it forward. It spins through the air. I feel it just barely miss me, but it wasn’t meant for me.
The knife hits its target, sticking into the center of Chris’s head. He fires the gun. The bullet strikes the floor, and he crashes down, twitching where he lay.
“They’re retreating!” Jack yells.
“Yeah, how do you like us now, suckers!” Alex yells out the window.
“Told you,” Will says to me, but with a smile.
I smile back.
Then I look over to Laura. She’s breathing heavily. Any hint of the person she was seems to be gone. Her eyes don’t leave Chris’s body. He twitches again, and mumbles something unintelligible. I can’t believe he’s somehow alive, but, then again, I was inside another world, slipping my body on like it was a costume.
“Damn,” Alex says, “Someone put this asshole out of his misery.”
Jack raises his gun and points it at Chris. Laura screams in that primal way again, giving me chills. She runs over to where Chris is laying near the front door. She brings her foot up and stomps on his head. Then again. And again. She continues to stomp on his head until it’s nothing but brain and bones she must scrape off the bottom of her shoe.
